A Whisper of Peace

Chapter Thirteen





In the morning, birdsong accompanied Clay on his walk to the river. The sun sent fingers of light between tree branches, gilding the foot-carved pathway. He pulled an empty travois, which he intended to leave at the river’s edge for his use when he returned. The sturdy willow supports stirred decaying leaves and raised the fresh scent of soil. Despite the worries of having too much to do in too short a time, he couldn’t deny a sense of pleasure from the scents, sounds, and sights of nature on this crisp morning.

Vivian’s many trips through the woods to Lizzie’s cabin had created a clear path that Clay had no difficulty following. When he heard the dogs bark, he knew the cabin waited nearby, so he called out a greeting. “Lizzie! It’s Clay Selby.” He announced himself twice before stepping into the clearing beside her cabin. She stood in the center of the yard with her rifle at her side.

He lifted his hand in a wave and paused at the edge of the yard. “May I . . . draw near?” He glanced at the dogs, who continued to bark and paw the fence.

Lizzie sliced her hand through the air and whistled. With a series of whimpers, the dogs calmed.

Clay took her actions as an invitation to enter the yard. He strode within a few feet of her and offered a quick wave. “Good morning, Lizzie.”

“Good morning.”

She wore Vivian’s blue-checked dress, and the sun glistened on her dark hair, which she had fashioned into a misshapen lump on the back of her head. He discovered he missed her braids—the simple style suited her so well. Yet he drew in a breath of relief at the sight. Despite the lack of warmth in her tone and the absence of a welcoming smile, she hadn’t cast aside Vivian’s teachings. Vivian would be comforted when he told her.

“I’m on my way to Fort Yukon, but Vivian asked me to stop by and see you.” The native woman’s sober expression gave Clay an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wished she wouldn’t stare at him so intensely, as if she could examine his thoughts. If she read the deepest ones, he’d scare her to death.

“Is Vivian coming today?”

Since he’d left his stepsister thoroughly scrubbing the interior of the mission school in preparation for fitting the windows, he doubted Vivian would leave the village today. He shook his head. “Not today.”

Lizzie’s face gave away nothing of her thoughts, but he believed he glimpsed a brief flash of regret in her blue eyes. He added, “But she can come tomorrow, if . . . if you’d like a visit.”

“She may visit.” Lizzie’s chin raised. “But I must ask that she—and you—respect my wishes and do not speak to my grandparents about me.”

The stubborn jut of Lizzie’s jaw reminded Clay of Co’Ozhii. He didn’t figure either woman would appreciate the comparison. “Neither of us want to cause you distress, Lizzie. We’re concerned about you, living here alone and fending for yourself. It must be lonely, and even dangerous. We wish the comfort and protection of the village for you.” His voice rose with fervor as he spoke, his desire to provide this woman with comfort and protection overriding all else.

Lizzie lifted the rifle. “I have protection.” She pointed to the pen, where the dogs sat looking in her direction, their faces attentive. “And my dogs provide comfort. I don’t need the village.” She spoke with conviction, but her voice quavered slightly, making Clay wonder if she intended to convince him or herself of her statement’s truth. “I want to learn from Vivian. I’m willing to teach her. But I am the leader of my . . . family . . . and as leader I insist you honor my request. Do not speak of me to my grandparents.”

Could he honestly vow to honor Lizzie’s request? And if he refused, would she then refuse their company? The remembrance of Vivian’s deep hurt and worry from the night before pierced him.

He drew in a slow breath and released it, offering a reluctant nod. “Very well. I will not mention your name to your grandparents again.” But he would still present the idea of forgiveness and reconciliation, and pray the rifts between family members would be mended.

“Good.”

“May I ask you a favor?”

She tipped her head, her brow pinching.

“Vivian and I have need of meat for the winter. Would you kill an elk or moose for us? I’m willing to make a trade—dry goods, clothing . . . whatever you might need in exchange for the meat.”

The slightest hint of a smile twitched at the woman’s lips. “You’re asking me to hunt for you?”

Heat built in Clay’s face. No able-bodied native man would ask a woman to provide for him. Her amusement bruised his pride, but he had to be honest. “My days are full, building the mission. I don’t have time to hunt.” Then he considered all of Lizzie’s responsibilities, living on her own. It was selfish to ask one more thing of her. He opened his mouth to tell her not to bother, but she spoke first.

“I’ll try to make a large kill for you. I wouldn’t want my friend Vivian to starve during her very first winter in Alaska.”

Had she teased him? She looked so sober, he couldn’t be sure, yet he detected a hint of humor in her statement. “Thank you. Please let me know what you’d like in trade.”

“I’ll keep the hide,” she said. “I can sell it in White Horse. That will be trade enough.”

That didn’t sound like a fair exchange to Clay. “Are you sure? I’d be glad to—”

“Vivian is my friend. I choose to help her.” Pink bloomed on her dusky cheeks. “And you.” She pointed toward the woods with her rifle barrel, inching around him. “I must check my traps. Tell Vivian to come tomorrow. When winter arrives, she’ll need warm mittens and a hat. You will, too. If the Great One, Denali, has blessed my traps with rabbits, I’ll show her how to prepare a hide for tanning and help her sew mittens that will keep your hands from freezing.”

“That’s kind of you.” He lowered his voice, injecting fervor in his tone. “And I will pray that God has blessed your traps so you’re able to make what you need.”

Lizzie’s brow furrowed. “Then you will utter a worthless prayer. Your God has no use for me.”

Her blunt statement startled Clay. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m not white.”

Clay shook his head adamantly. “My God—the Father of us all—loves you very much, Lizzie.”

The woman snorted.

Clay ignored the derisive sound. “Didn’t you ask Vivian to teach you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wearing a white woman’s dress. You style your hair in a white woman’s fashion. Does that mean you accept the things she’s taught you?”

Lizzie’s sky-colored eyes glinted with apprehension, but she nodded.

“Vivian and I both came to teach. So why do you doubt what I tell you? God loves you.” Clay’s heart caught, remembering the day he’d accepted God’s love for himself. Only a child—six years old—but carried to truth by his father’s earnest teaching. In his mind’s eye, he viewed his father’s fervent face proclaiming the truth of God’s great love to the Kiowa people. Holding his hand to Lizzie, he said, “In the Bible it says God loved the world so much, He sent His only Son to die for the sins of the world so we could all be clean and unblemished before Him. The world, Lizzie. Everyone ever born. That means you, too.”

Lizzie twisted her lips, as if tasting his statement and trying to decide whether she found the flavor pleasing. Then she stuck out her arm, showing him the back of her hand. “Your words are fine and good for white people. You can be clean. But see my skin? Brown . . . Always brown. I’ll never be clean enough for your God. I can only hope I am clean enough for my father and his family.”

Clay opened his mouth to protest, but she swung away from him.

“I must check my traps. Good-bye, Clay.”

Clay watched her stalk away, his heart heavy. He considered following her, prevailing upon her to listen to him, but too many other responsibilities awaited him. He headed for the river, resolve lengthening his stride. Up until now, he’d denied Vivian’s requests that he visit Lizzie, but no more. Lizzie needed lessons beyond what Vivian had presented. It would mean time away from the mission, but he would make known the truth of God’s love to this native woman who, somehow, inexplicably, had wormed her way into the center of his heart.


———


Clay’s trip to Fort Yukon proved more frustrating than fulfilling. His elation that the Mission Committee had sent supplies was dashed when he discovered the crates and bags had been left, unattended, in the back of a well-frequented livery stable. Consequently, nearly all of them had been opened and scavenged. He located the livery owner asleep in the loft. The man wasn’t happy to have his nap disturbed, but Clay ignored his disgruntled mutters and lodged a complaint about his lost goods.

The man shrugged. “Things come in, things go out.” He coughed, not even bothering to cover his mouth. “I store ’em an’ don’t get so much as a penny for my trouble. Can’t be expected to keep guard, too.” He rubbed his temples and squinted at Clay with watery eyes. “You got issues, mister, take it up with the law.” The man doubled over in another coughing fit, and Clay quickly departed.

Clay suspected Fort Yukon’s lawman wouldn’t care much about the loss of items intended for a native village, so he didn’t bother following the liveryman’s advice. He loaded the remaining supplies in the canoe and then paid a scruffy-looking boy fifty cents to keep watch and holler like his pants had caught fire if anyone approached his belongings. Then he went shopping.

His lungs nearly exploded with his gasp at the asking price for twelve-inch square panes of glass. The merchant expressed no more sympathy than the livery owner had. “Any idea what I pay for freight for fragile items like glass? Mister, these here’d be a bargain at ten dollars apiece, an’ that’s a fact.”

Clay had hoped to put glass in all five window openings, but after seeing the prices he decided they’d make do with oiled paper. At least for their first year. Maybe the Mission Committee could find the funds for windows later. He purchased iron hinges and a door latch, cringing at the amount of money he had to hand over even for such basic items that couldn’t possibly be considered fragile.

The ramshackle mercantile next to the hardware store offered a surprisingly wide selection of fabrics, including a snow-white batiste Clay knew would please Vivian. But bleached muslin was less than half the price, so he asked for it instead. After the owner cut the fabric, he said, “Hey, ain’t you one o’ them missionaries what took up residence at a siwash village north o’ here?”

Clay gritted his teeth to hold back words of admonition and nodded.

“Some mail come for you.” The man lifted a crate from under the counter and pawed through it. “Had a whole passel o’ mail this month—pret’ near a dozen letters! Two of ’em’s for you an’ your woman.” He withdrew the crumpled envelopes and thrust them across the counter at Clay with a big grin. “There ya go, mister. Two of ’em.”

“Thank you.” Clay glanced at the envelopes—a letter for Vivian from her mother, and one for him from Pa. His fingers itched to tear into his immediately, but he needed to get back. The reading would have to wait. He slipped them into his shirt pocket, tucked his paper-wrapped parcels under his arm, and returned to the borrowed canoe.

His jaw dropped and feet stumbled when he spotted three ragtag urchins sitting on the crates, munching raw potatoes. Where was the boy he’d paid? Righteous indignation filled Clay’s chest and exploded from his mouth as he broke into a run. “You there! What do you think you’re doing? Get away from my things!” He’d never spoken so harshly to children, but he’d never had his patience tried to such extremes.

The boys hopped from the canoe, the smallest one losing his hat in his scramble to escape. He spun to retrieve it, but Clay glared at him, and he took off after the others, bareheaded.

Disgusted, Clay gave the tattered hat a toss after the fleeing child and then wedged his packages between crates.

Taking up the paddle, he rowed with all his might, expending some of the frustrations of the day. By the time he rounded the bend that hid the town from sight, his aching shoulders begged for respite. Drawing a deep breath, he slowed the pace of his paddling and allowed his racing pulse to calm. He passed a small group of rafting otters. Their bright eyes followed him. On another day Clay would have chuckled at the animals’ lazy curiosity, but today he couldn’t manage so much as a tired smile.

“Everything that could go wrong went wrong,” he said, snorting with disgust. “Supplies stolen. Items priced beyond any reasonable means.” He gave the paddle a vicious swipe, his ire mounting again. He left the otters behind, but he continued to speak to the passing landscape. “Fifty cents squandered on a boy who proved untrustworthy. An entire day spent away from the mission school. And—” He clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to voice the most distressing of all—his failure to convince Lizzie that God loved her.

Clay pushed the paddle through the water, propelling the canoe along, while his thoughts drifted backward in time. For Clay’s first eight years of life, his pa hadn’t stood behind a pulpit in a church building—they’d traveled all over the Dakotas on horseback. Town to town, homestead to homestead, Pa preached wherever God called. Sometimes he opened his Bible in the middle of a busy street, sometimes in schoolhouses or barns. He preached to crowds so large he had to holler to be heard, and he shared just as exuberantly one-on-one in the dirt yard of a sod house while the housewife snapped peas and chickens pecked in the dirt around his feet. Wherever Pa went, he reached folks.

Passionate. Sincere. Zealous. Clay applied all of those words and more to Judson Selby. The man drew people like a magnet drew steel, and not once in all of his years of observing his father had Clay seen anyone turn his back on Pa’s teachings. Maybe Pa’s size—six foot four in his stocking feet—discouraged folks from ignoring him. But Clay suspected it was more than Pa’s intimidating size that kept ears attentively tuned—it was his presentation. When Pa spoke, folks listened and accepted, and that was that.

Clay’s chest tightened, a familiar worry rising to choke him. He didn’t have his pa’s size—he wasn’t a small man, but he lacked his father’s unusual height and muscular build. He didn’t have his pa’s booming voice, either. He believed he had his father’s zeal and desire to point lost souls to their Savior, but he lacked the element of magnetism his father possessed. An ache built in the center of his chest. What good was it to have a desire to preach if folks wouldn’t listen?

He gave the paddle a firm sweep that sent the canoe onto the bank. He tugged it well away from the water’s edge so the current couldn’t carry it away. The travois waited, right where he’d put it that morning, along with a coil of rope to secure the supplies to its willow-and-deer-hide frame. He’d need to make more than one trip to get everything to the village, so he loaded the things he thought they needed most—the half-emptied gunnysacks of potatoes, onions, and carrots, the oiled paper and metal door workings, and Vivian’s muslin—on the travois and left the other items in the canoe.

As he tucked a square tarp over the crates in the canoe’s belly, he prayed it wouldn’t be bothered by curious animals or thieving humans. “I can’t afford anything else getting lost.” Lost . . . The word taunted him. Raising his eyes to the cloud-dusted sky, he held his arms out in a gesture of supplication. “I came here so the native people would find their way to You—so they won’t be lost eternally. I came to do right, God. So why are so many things going wrong?”